


The Five Times Charles Kissed Erik (And Perhaps Erik Kissed Charles)

by cannibananalism



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, drunk!Charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibananalism/pseuds/cannibananalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few short chapters in which the telepath and the metal-bender share a smooch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Five times Steve kissed Bucky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1519292) by [paragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paragon/pseuds/paragon). 



Rain batters the windows in a steady rhythm. Charles is sat back in his chair, arm draped over the back lazily. His free hand holds a glass of scotch. It was unusual for Charles to drink unless there was cause for a celebration. And there is. New students! Or at least Charles likes to believe they are students. They are, however, more like an army, as Erik so kindly put it. 

“Charles,” Mystique chimes. “It’s your turn.” 

A chess board sits between the two mutants. Black pieces fill the board. White pieces sit defeated on the table beside their board. The black pieces are, of course, Charles’. 

“Ah, yes, Raven. My apologies.”

His fingers dance above his pieces. He moves his final pawn forward one space. Raven tilts her head slightly as she uses her rook to capture one of his knights. 

“That was a terrible move, Charles.” 

But, of course, Charles is not listening. His mind is elsewhere. On someone else’s mind, actually. He mentally searches the mansion, intent on finding Erik. 

_Are you up for a game of chess?_ He asks Erik, once he finds him. He’s in the kitchen, by himself, it seems. Erik’s head shoots up and his eyes meet the door of the kitchen, almost expecting someone to be standing there. But there is no one. 

_I’m reading, Charles,_ Erik responds. 

_In the kitchen?_

_Am I not allowed to eat while I read?_

_Raven is...not the best partner to play with._

_I’m black and you’re white._

_Deal._

“Charles, if you don’t want to play-...” 

“It’s getting rather late, Raven, isn’t it?” 

Mystique narrows her eyes, as if to say, ‘I’m not a child, Charles.’ But instead she says nothing. She slowly stands. 

“Good night,” Charles pipes after a sip of scotch, smiling innocently. 

But Raven leaves with a simple nod. She catches Erik on the way out and rolls her eyes quite audibly. Erik can’t help but smile and say, “Good evening, Raven.” 

“Oh, so I _am_ Raven? I was under the impression that the real Raven was blue and orange.” 

But Erik is gone, smirking to himself as he walks through the doors of Charles’ study. Charles’ eyes are closed; the effects of his third glass of scotch moving over him in slow waves. Erik stands, watching him, an eyebrow quirked and his arms folded. One eye opens. And then the other. A genuine smile tugs the corners of Charles’ mouth upward. 

“Erik,” he sighs, pointing a finger at the older man. “Erik.” 

“Charles?” Erik asks, trying to hide his smirk. 

“Erik, would you like to play a rousing game of chess, hmm?” 

“That _is_ what I came down for, isn’t it?” 

Charles tilts his head, seemingly deep in thought. “Oh,” he nods. “You’re right. Apologies, my friend.” 

The glass in Charles’ hand is a dead giveaway. But then Erik’s gaze finds the bottle of Doc Brown scotch, nearing its end, showing just how much Charles has actually had. With a fond roll of his eyes and a little chuckle, Erik sits across from Charles and crosses his legs. 

“I’m assuming Raven was white.” 

And this, for some very strange reason, causes the slowly dimming Charles to burst into a fit of giggles. Not laughter, no. But giggles. The very giggles that irk Erik to no end. 

“She’s _blue_ , Erik!” 

“Yes, --“ 

“Like your eyes!” 

And Erik takes a deep breath. Ignoring Charles, he resets the board. He’s now quite curious as to how a game of chess with an almost-drunk telepath will go. But this ignoring thing doesn’t quite work when he finds Charles’ hands on his knees. 

“Are they blue? They’re quite a bit green, too. Are they both? Can that happen?”

“I...don’t know, Charles. You’re the expert in genetics, are you not?” 

“Am I?” 

“Charles, you’re in my way.”

“...Am I? Let me look at your eyes.” 

“You _are_ looking at my eyes.” 

And he certainly is looking at his eyes. He studies the pupil, dark and hole-y as they generally are. The inner rim of the iris, more green than blue. But then there’s the outer ring, blue as the sky in the middle of June. Deep and bright and lovely. _God_ , what an OCA2 gene. His sclera. So white. It’s now that Charles realizes just how drunk he is. He’s hovering over a slightly scared Erik, admiring his sclera. 

Quickly growing bored of those sclera, Charles’ eyes find their way to Erik’s nose. Being so close to it, his eyes soon become crossed and a little giggle finds its way out. 

“ _Charles._ ” 

“ _Erik._ ” 

“Get off.” 

The telepath keeps one hand on Erik’s knee, the other going to his temple. 

_Erik, your sclera are magnificent._

_Charles, I don’t know what a sclera is._

_The white parts of your eyes._

_Thank you. Now get off._

But he doesn’t get off. No, no. He lets his eyes travel farther, bored of that little nose, too. Hm... Cheekbones. That one free hand gingerly traces a cheekbone, rough fingers meeting soft skin in a very tickly encounter. Erik swallows thickly, quickly growing impatient with the “dignified professor,” so close. Breath tainted with the smell of scotch. Pupils blown. 

And closer and closer he grows. 

Closer. 

Noses touch. Erik squirms. Charles smirks.  
Foreheads touch. Erik’s eyes close. Charles snickers. 

Lips meet in a wet, sloppy, scotch-filled kiss. Charles’ free hand threads its fingers through Erik’s hair. 

But Erik’s hand finds Charles’ chest, pushing him away, before Charles has the ability to do anything he’d forever regret. The telepath blinks and straightens up, hands quickly retreating from Erik’s body. He stumbles backward, subsequently knocking an army of chess pieces to the ground. Pawns and knights clatter and roll. Erik stands, a look of shock and anger painted across his face. The back of his hand wipes his lips. 

“You’re _drunk_ , Charles. Go to bed.” 

And out he storms, leaving a very confused and butterflies-in-the-tummy-happy Charles behind. 

That night Erik mulls their encounter over. Weighing the pros against the cons. Thinking too much. Dangerous, that is: thinking too much. But, Erik thinks, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to try it again.


	2. Chapter 2

Matching gray jumpsuits sit in a field of grass.

Their previous  _encounter_ had quickly been forgotten. Mostly because Charles really didn't remember much of  _anything_ from that night and Erik tried his very hardest to push it out of his memory. The telepath regarded whatever snippets of memory he sometimes received as a dream. He tried not to dwell on it. Erik, however, was constantly haunted by the kiss. It flooded his dreams and his nightmares and, though he'd never admit it, his daydreams.

Charles holds a book in his right hand, his left arm propping him up. "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit," he reads aloud. "Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort."

Erik isn't paying much attention, though. He focuses on the huge satellite smack-dab in front of him. Staring at him. Taunting him.

"Erik, I want a hobbit-hole."

"You--... What?"

Charles twists around, trying to face his mansion. He points his book at an area just beside it. "There. I want a hobbit-hole right there."

"A...crocket-mole?" 

" _Hobbit-hole_ , Erik. Don't tell me you've never read The Hobbit." 

Erik looks away, back at that satellite. He discreetly raises his hand, out of Charles' view. Using all of the strength he can muster, he tries to move the mound of metal. It proves to be futile. As usual. 

"Hm? Did you say something, Charles?" Erik tilts his head back toward the professor. 

Charles holds  _The Hobbit_ out toward his friend. Erik is slightly reluctant at first, assuming that it's another one of Charles' books about evolution or genetics or genetic mutations. He takes it, though, knitting his brow. It's a beautiful leather-bound copy with the title in gold print. Erik runs his finger over said title, letting a very small smile grow.

"The Hobbit? This is a gorgeous copy, Charles." 

"Consider it yours. I've read it far too many times, anyway. I think you'd enjoy it. I think you'd enjoy it very much." 

Erik nods, his smile only growing wider. Before even reading the first word, he fans through the pages and takes a good whiff. 

"Books age and, as they do, certain chemical compounds that are used - the glue, the paper, the ink - break down and release volatile compounds. People would describe the smell as grassy, acidic,  _vanilla-like_. Lignin, present in all wood-based paper is very closely related to vanillin," Charles states, quite matter-of-factly. 

The smile fades from Erik's face. 

He gently sets the book on the ground beside him. 

He swallows thickly and tilts his head. Index finger and thumb find their way to Charles' chin and pull his face close. Erik opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. His words are lost in Charles' eyes. Brighter and bluer than his own. His eyes travel to his lips. The very lips that pull into a smirk. Small and soft, he remembers from the other night. The same lips that have told Erik over and over how wonderful he is. How good he can be. How good he should be. The lips that laugh at his jokes, and his own jokes. The lips that kiss Raven's cheek before bed. And the lips that smile at Moira. The lips that read aloud when he thinks Erik cannot hear him. The lips that murmur to themselves late at night, speaking of every genetic mutation known to man. Speaking of humans and of mutants. Equality. The idea that Erik just cannot understand. 

Erik's own tainted lips soon find solace on Charles'. He hangs on to the mouth that feeds him praise and comfort when he so desperately needs it. As they kiss, softly and gingerly, Erik feels as though he can absorb the kind words and the brilliant ideas that those lips have said and whispered. 

But, as he pulls away, he finds that that sort of thing is just not possible. Charles and he are still different. Separated by different ideas. To what extent is not yet known to either of them, so let's allow them to live in blissful ignorance for now. 

Erik drops his hand from Charles' chin, blinking and speechless. But not filled with regret as he thought he'd be. Charles does now realize, though, that that night was  _not_ a dream. It was real. And he is so very happy that it  _was real_.  _  
_


	3. Chapter 3

Erik turns his head to look at that absolutely horrid little ticking clock on the wall beside his bed. _Tick tick tick tick click._ Eight in the morning. He rubs his face and sighs. Three days. For three days he's heard the clock _tick tick tick_ and watched the small hand hit the eight. The clock seemed to stare at him. Taunt him as he slept. Well, as he tried to sleep. For three days Erik has not slept.

He throws on a shirt and pads down to the kitchen, following the intoxicating scent of bacon. Charles is cooking while Raven and Hank sit at the table, being the only three people up so far. And then there's Erik, who doesn't actually count seeing as he hasn't actually slept yet. The three smile up at him, greeting him with "Good morning"s and "Hey"s. Erik only responds with a nod and a barely noticeable wave of his hand.

"Bacon, Erik?" Charles uses his favorite tongs - the ones with the pull tab that locks them closed - to transfer the bacon to a plate.

"Uh, yeah... Yes, please." A yawn escapes, fighting against Erik's will to stifle it. He quickly grabs his plate of bacon and retreats to his room. Perhaps he'll fall asleep after some food. They won't miss him, anyway. Just a few hours...

* * *

 

 _Tick tick tick tick click._ Nine in the morning.

_Knock knock._

"It's open."

In walks Charles, hands in his pockets, leaning against the door jamb. He looks worried, his brows pulled together and his lips in a tight line.

"How many days, Erik?"

"Three."

Charles finds himself sitting on the edge of Erik's bed. His fingers move to his temple and his eyes lock with his friend's.

_Erik, what's wrong?_

_Nothing. Don't you have an army to train, Charles?_

_They're students, Erik._

_Whatever they are. They need training._

_And you need sleep._

_I'm fine._

_You aren't. And you need to tell me what's wrong._

_Charles, you need to leave. Please._

Charles absolutely loves Erik's mind. It's not the dull, exposed mind of everyone else around him. Not even Raven has as complex a mind as Erik does. Erik's mind is filled with trap doors and false memories and long-locked doors that lead to moments Erik thought he had forgotten so many years ago. On the surface are memories of the war and of the camps. Beneath them are memories of his life before. They're dug so deep that it takes immense concentration just to scratch the surface. This is what's bothering Erik. His bad memories take up too much room. He has no room to find the good things. To store more good things. Anger takes precedence and Charles just doesn't agree. This is the best cause, Charles thinks, to use his power. This is what matters. Slowly, Charles begins to pluck memories from the deep recesses of Erik's mind. Birthday parties and trips to zoos. Friends and family and his mother. So many wonderful memories about a mother who cares just too much for her children. Who would do anything for her little boy.

_Charles. Stop._

And he does. That's enough for now, anyway. For now.

"Those are beautiful, Erik -"

"Don't ever do that again," Erik snaps. But Charles knows that that is certainly not what he is thinking.

_Thank you, Charles._

_You're very welcome, my friend._

Charles leans forward to catch Erik's lips once again. It's gotten just a bit easier now. Just a bit smoother, softer, gentler. Erik gingerly caresses his friend's cheek. Charles pulls away and pats Erik's thigh.

"Go to sleep. I'll wake you when lunch is ready."


	4. Chapter 4

The TV blares. The president speaks. It's all the same to Erik now. Bombs and missiles and Cuba and mutants. Nothing good anymore. Nothing noteworthy. The news scratches its way into Erik's mind, picking and picking until it makes a home and sticks. Until Erik can no longer think about anything else. Everything else seems to become unimportant in comparison to the war between humans and mutants. A war between Erik and himself. Between his beliefs and Charles. His friend. With whom, he hopes, he might just have a future. The two hemispheres of Erik's mind are battlefields, poisoned by views that make Erik himself cringe. And yet, with every passing day, these cringeworthy thoughts begin to soften and begin to seem like brilliant courses of action. Until he rolls over in bed in the middle of the night. And through the inky darkness he can see the brightest light that his life has ever harbored: Charles Xavier. Until Charles awakens and his icy blue eyes pierce the anger and hate and red that Erik can hardly ever stop seeing. Until a sleepy murmur accompanied by a smirk asks Erik  _why, oh why are you staring at me, baby?_ And Erik just smiles and shakes his head. Makes a snide, teasing remark and rolls back over the other way. 

**_Everybody is doin' a brand new dance, now_ **  
**_(Come on baby, do the Loco-motion)_ **

Raven's radio isn't helping the situation. It just proves to further irritate Erik. One, he can't hear the television and two,  _my god, what the **hell** is she listening to?_   The TV is clicked off and Erik finds his way to Raven's room. It's positively  _blasting_. Where does she think she is? Raven's voice can easily be heard singing much louder than the radio itself. But then... There's another voice. That certainly isn't Hank. Darwin? No, it can't be. Erik had just seen Darwin in the kitchen, playing with a pot of boiling water while Havok pretended to be unimpressed. 

No... No.  _Jesus Christ, that's Charles._ Erik has no choice now but to turn the knob slowly and quietly, in the hopes that he'll get to see Charles rocking out to Little Eva. 

"Now that you can do it, let's make a chain, now!" Charles.

"Come on baby, do the Loco-motion!" Raven. 

"A chug-a chug-a motion like a railroad train, now!" Charles.

"Come on baby, do the Loco-motion!" Raven. 

The look on Charles's face when he sees Erik is priceless. And for just one moment every bad thought is completely wiped from Erik's mind. Missiles don't exist. Mutants and humans are one. What's Cuba? All that matters in that one moment are Charles's scarlet cheeks and tomato ears. The awkward grin that soon forms is the most adorable thing in Erik's eyes. Raven, on the other hand, seems to be very confused as to what's going on between the two older men. Some strange form of... Of something. It's creepy, whatever it is. 

_You're a wonderful singer, Charles._

_You need to promise you'll never tell anyone about this encounter. Ever._

_Oh, you know secrets come with a price, my dear._

_And you know I'll pay anything._

And Raven, like any self-respecting young girl, removes herself and her radio from the situation. This seems to be some very creepy form of telepathic eye/mind sex and it is  _very_ disturbing. 

It isn't very long before Erik has lifted Charles's very crimson body off of Raven's bed. Their encounters often involve little to no words. This encounter is no exception. The still giggling older man gingerly brushes his fingers across Charles's cheek, enjoying the embarrassed warmth it radiates. 

"You're a very good singer. I had no idea. I've always wanted to be able to sing that well, you know. Perhaps I can just..." Erik's tactic is a suave one, as per usual. He presses his lips against his telepath's and gently guides him to lean against a wall. Maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to steal Charles's singing voice like this. And if not... Well, if not, it's still a hell of a lot of fun to try. 


End file.
